Reasons to Live
by pseudo-vulture
Summary: Sherlock and Lestrade are on the first case they've been on together without John in years when their suspect pulls a gun... {between Sign of Three and His Last Vow} [one-shot for now]


**My evil mind came up with the headcanon that the only way that Sherlock would ever get Greg's name right is if something happened to open of them. Set between Sign of Three and Empty Hearse.**

**Sorry.**

* * *

><p>Greg saw the man pull the gun and Sherlock didn't. It wasn't like either of them could have done anything about it. Neither of them was armed. It was as simple as that.<p>

Although it felt anything but simple now. It was a bad decision to have to make in a split second, to have to decide who would live and who would die, one he'd made before but never got used to.

But Greg knew he had been playing Russian Roulette since the first case Sherlock had helped him on.

He hadn't even noticed himself moving until his chest exploded with agony as the bullet ripped through his body, the feeling disappearing just as quickly, leaving him numb. He got the vague sensation of falling, the grey sky now in his sight, not the man and the buildings. Then there were strong hands gripping his shoulders, catching him just before he hit the ground.

"Lestrade? Lestrade! Listen to me! Keep your eyes open!"

Greg blinked slowly. Did Sherlock still not know his name? Apparently not. They'd known each other for years and he still refused to remember one syllable.

The detective was muttering every curse under the sun as he pulled his phone from his jacket with one hand and kept the other pressed against Greg's heavily bleeding chest, trying to slow the flow of blood.

"Ambulance, I need an ambulance." He said into the phone, stammering uncharacteristically. "Hold _on_, Garth, stay awake!"

No. Sherlock definitely didn't know his name. The things he'd done, the things he'd given up for this kid and he'd never gotten a single thing in return. Greg coughed painfully. Breathing was getting harder.

He listened to Sherlock bark the street into his phone but he felt detached from it, as though the voice was far away.

Why should he hold on? He was dying, holding on would just prolong the pain in his chest. It was typical, really. It had been almost five years since he'd been in a case with Sherlock alone, with John still on his honeymoon, and the first bloody suspect they'd been to look at had pulled a gun the second after they'd got out of the car. At least Greg did get the knowledge that he was right for once; Sherlock has said the murderer was the sister, not the cousin.

"They'll be here in ten minutes, just stay awake." Sherlock said from so far away.

Greg doubted that. They were miles away from any hospital and it was six o'clock; rush hour in the capital. He'd seen it before. He was dead, especially judging by the amount of blood covering the hand that Sherlock removed momentarily from his chest. Greg silently thanked a few gods he didn't believe in that the gunman had run, not stayed to kill Sherlock as well.

His thoughts inevitably strayed to his ex-wife. They fucking had to, didn't they? Last moments on Earth and he was thinking of the bitch who'd left him alone in the world with no money and no hope. Sherlock had been right as usual, she'd still been screwing the PE teacher. When they'd started the enquiry about Sherlock, she'd screamed it in his face and left to go and live with the bastard. Not long after he'd been kicked out of their flat because he couldn't keep up with payments and afford a divorce lawyer and the alimony and he'd been living in a dank, one bedroomed apartment ever since.

There was Molly, but she didn't care about him, beyond as a friend of Sherlock and John's. And she had that Tom kid, the one who looked like Sherlock. No chance of looking twice at him.

It had been a good idea to step in front of that bullet. What did he have left now? Sherlock had the friends he'd just returned to and the chance to save lives. He was just an old copper with only his job left, and god knew there were so many people who were better at it.

So here he was, dying in a way he'd more or less expected to happen sooner or later.

"Please, Greg." Sherlock whispered, looking into the older man's dark eyes and squeezing his hand.

Greg smiled slightly, despite everything. He did remember.

The sound of sirens rung out around the street and Sherlock stood up quickly to signal them. They'd arrived faster than either man had thought possible on a Friday evening in the centre of London.

Sherlock knelt down again as the ambulance screeched to a stop next to them. The former-DI coughed weakly, specks of blood spraying onto his lips.

"You'll be fine." Sherlock said confidently looking between Greg and the ambulance.

He coughed again, resting a pale hand on Sherlock's arm, still trying in vain to at least slow down the bleeding. "No."

"What?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

Greg shook his head weakly. "Not this time."

His hand fell away from Sherlock's and his eyes shut slowly.

"Greg?" Sherlock whispered, the last thing the detective inspector heard before everything faded.


End file.
